Iyisha and Malcolm took turns using the bathroom.
She went first.
The shower was hot.
Hot. It had been weeks since her last hot bath.
She stood there longer than she meant to, steam fogging the mirror and her lungs. Soap. Shampoo. A towel that didn't smell like mildew. For a moment, she nearly cried.
She used the tub too and soaked until her toes pruned and the warmth seeped into her bones. She even moaned, softly, at how good it felt.
She looked like a person again.
Then she froze.
She'd forgotten her bag in her rush to try the bath.
Wrapped in a towel, she cracked the door open and slipped out to grab it from where she left it near the bed.
Malcolm was sitting on the edge, sharpening his knife. He looked up.
His gaze lingered, long enough to make her face heat up.
"It's your turn," she said, clearing her throat.
He nodded, not saying a word, and stood.
She watched him disappear into the bathroom, then sat down and tried to calm her breathing.
That look shouldn't have affected her.
But God it did.
A few minutes later, Malcolm came out too, the towel still low around his waist. He turned, letting it hang loose as he stepped into clean boxers. She caught glimpses of skin, lean and scarred, shifting as he moved.
She was mesmerized.
The moment he was done, she turned her head so fast her neck cracked. Her face burned.
She felt like a creep.
He sat down on the sofa inside the room, arms resting on his knees. She laid back on the soft bed, still half-sinking into the mattress.
"They seem like good people," she said quietly.
He looked at her, expression unreadable. "There are no good people left outside the safe zones."
She nodded slowly, her thoughts spinning. Only people from places like Redridge and all safe zones have been able to keep their hands clean. People like her.
Freedom had a price. The safe zones were controlled, watched, confined but they were safe. Out here, as a wanderer, you chose freedom, and that meant learning to defend yourself without walls.
How many people had they killed to protect this place?
"When I find my sister," she said, "I want a place like this."
"A place like this isn't forever," he replied. Then he glowered toward the window. "It's a wonder how they defended it this long."
A knock came.
"Dinner's ready!"
They followed the hallway into a wide dining room.
The table looked like something out of a holiday magazine. Roast pot steaming in the center. Cornbread stacked beside bowls of butter. Bright vegetables. A bottle of red wine and another of amber cider.
Grandma Jo was already seated, smiling wide.
John and Matt were chatting casually, plates in hand.
Grandma Jo frowned slightly at the weapons they still wore but said nothing. "I've brought out a wine for you," she added excitedly.
Iyisha and Malcolm exchanged a glance.
How rich were these people?
Or maybe, how dangerous were they to have this much supply?
They even said grace, holding hands around the table. It brought back memories of her family before the world collapsed. She smiled, just a little, at the warmth of it.
When they sat, John poured them each a drink.
Then he picked up his fork and took a bite of roast and drank the wine.
They ate. The food was delicious, heavy and hot in her stomach, and for the first time in weeks, she didn't feel like she was starving or watching every bite.
Then Grandma Jo looked up from her plate. "How long have you two been married?"
"Seven years," Malcolm answered smoothly.
Iyisha blinked.
"You were married before the undead?" Grandma Jo asked, eyes wide.
Malcolm glanced at Iyisha like he expected her to take over.
This man really wants her to keep making things up.
"Yeah," she said, picking up the lie. "We were married in Montana. It was beautiful."
"I'm hoping for wives for John and Matt too," Grandma Jo said fondly. Then she sighed. "Matt - I thought he found a girlfriend once, but that woman only took the pistols and ran."
"Grandma," Matt muttered, groaning.
John snorted. "That woman was bad news from the start."
"Why don't you stay for a few more days?" Grandma Jo said, smiling again. "It's been so long since we had any visitors."
John poured her a glass, and she took a cautious sip.
It was sweet then sharp.
"First time?" John asked, smirking.
She shook her head. "No."
A lie. She had never touched alcohol before but there was no way she admitting that here.
The wine tasted like fruit juice. It was smooth, sweet, easy to drink, and dangerously pleasant in a way that made her keep sipping without thinking.
John leaned in slightly. "Careful with that. It's stronger than it tastes. Grandma Jo still makes it the old way."
She nodded and took another sip anyway.
Malcolm raised an eyebrow at her, but said nothing.
She tried again, slower this time. Letting it swirl in her mouth. It was strange, but... nice. Warm.
By the second cup, her limbs felt loose. Her thoughts soft. She blinked hard, realizing her hand was already reaching for the glass again.
Then John refilled it. So she drank.
She actually giggled when Grandma Jo mentioned roast again. Something in her chest loosened, like she was remembering how to be a person again.
Then she noticed Malcolm watching her, frowning—not angry, exactly, but something close.
She didn't know why that made her smile harder.
He turned to Grandma Jo, his voice even. "If we can stay a little longer and plan our next move, we'd appreciate it."
John refilled her cup again.
She let him. And drank.
All she could think about now was that kiss in the bunker.
Maybe tonight, again.